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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24211813">you can't always get what you want (but if you try sometimes)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte'>Culumacilinte</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sweet (2000)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dirty Talk, Fantasizing, Friends to Lovers, Humiliation, M/M, Not talking about feelings, POV Third Person Limited, Public Masturbation, Recreational Drug Use, Scheming, Walking In On Someone, but in the kinky way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:21:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,177</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24211813</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Pete caught Stitch having a wank, or: four times Pete caught Stitch having a wank and one time Stitch tried and failed to get caught, or: these two idiots are kinky and make bad decisions but it all works out in the end.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Pete Sweet/Stitch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Bringing Back the Boosh 2020 Fic Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you can't always get what you want (but if you try sometimes)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/gifts">blackmountainbones</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It has been a very long time since I've successfully finished a fic, and my goodness, this porny little idea blew itself right out of proportion in the writing! Smut with a side of ridiculousness and character growth, and I do hope you enjoy it.</p><p>So much thanks to Thatswherethelightgetsin and concupiscence66 for general idea-bouncing and beta-reading, respectively, and thanks especially to my darling and effervescent Bluestocking79 for working her story midwifery magic and helping me through the roughest parts of the writing &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>THE FIRST TIME</b>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s the after-afterparty, his favourite part of any night going out with Pete, when they’ve gone back to Pete’s flat to finish off the night just them. Every time it’s ‘aw, I’m knackered, I’m gonna pass out soon as I get home’ while they’re leaving, but once they get there, Pete always manages to unearth a couple of cans of lager out the back of the fridge or a crate of White Lightning from somewhere and they don’t pass out for another couple hours yet. Stupid laughter and knocking into each other on the settee and the warm confidence that comes with being inside, together, ensconced in the oyster shell of Pete’s flat. </p><p>This time-- and Stitch won’t remember any of this come the morning-- he’s drifting into the gentle conclusion of the roll they’re both on, the E Dave had to share that was definitely cut with something because everything in the room is wavering gently, soft fractals around the edges of objects that should be still and solid. Pete’s in the other room where he’s been crouched next to the turntable playing Mother of Pearl on repeat for so long it’s just blended into the background of things; Stitch breathes and it sounds like Bryan Ferry’s warble. And he keeps forgetting about doors. Not even about whether they’re open or not, but about the existence of them at all. </p><p>Everything feels on one plane, and he doesn’t even notice his hand sliding down to brush over his flies. The sensation’s E-sharp and lager-blunted both at once, like looking through a steam-fogged shower door when the most important thing really is the slow, warm, wet heat inside. </p><p>He sighs and shifts back into the beanbag chair, head pressing against the soft static crunch of it as his hand kneads. The beanbag is neon green with black zebra stripes; Pete bought it out some tween girl catalogue Stitch has never heard of, and when he’s sober, he thinks it’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen. Fucking tacky. When he’s off his face, it immediately becomes his favourite thing in Pete’s flat. Most furniture simply isn’t built for Stitch’s self-consciously too-long, gangling limbs; the beanbag is <em> perfect </em>and he loves it.</p><p>He’s not thinking about getting off, only about how nice he feels right now. The after-after-afterparty, drifting and content and his Pete in the other room. His zipper’s undone now and his own big hand (and it is! laughs the part of his brain that’s still rolling. what is he even doing with hands this big?) down his pants, into the humid heat of all that body-close air. His cock’s soft and hard all at once, and thrumming with heat. It feels like the Roxy Music rhythm’s got into his dick as well, and he chuckles, and then giggles, the giggles building heedless in his chest at the image of a tiny Roxy Music show happening in his bollocks. He should remember that to share with Pete; Pete would think that’s hilarious.</p><p>This is honestly his favourite thing about E, Stitch thinks, oblivious, that he doesn’t feel like a complete bellend right now. </p><p>His eyes are closed, mostly, and unfocussed when they’re not, so he doesn’t notice Pete in the doorway. Stranded is still playing in the other room, but Pete, who’d got up to come check on Stitch some time ago, is frozen staring from behind the half-open door with wide blue eyes and a massive fucking hard on. He looks a little vacant, mouth half-open and lower lip slack, stupid and stoned, but his eyes are bright and avid as he stares.</p><p>Stitch sighs again, a contented murmur as he stretches one leg out and idly plays with his balls.Sleep’s washing up and over him as he lazily cups and strokes and tugs at his pubes. It’s soft and buzzing, a warm dark static plucking at his arms and legs and brain; his lips are tingling, tongue touching the air and gut full of heat too lazy to contract down into his balls for an orgasm. He yawns hugely, snuggling his face into the beanbag. His hand isn’t even moving anymore, just shoved comfortably between his legs as he drifts comfortably into sleep.</p><p>Pete at the door swallows, and takes his hand out of his pocket, and quietly closes the door for Stitch as he starts to snore. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>THE SECOND TIME</b>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s the morning after a different late night-- there’s always late nights with Pete and Stitch. They’re at Stitch’s place this time and Pete is snoring on the settee when Stitch wakes up with just enough of a hangover to be annoying and a morning glory insistently making itself known through the slit of his boxers. He yawns and squints through crusty eyes, glaring down at his dick. It throbs insolently at him. He needs a piss too, and he can’t bloody well do that with a hard-on; the mess just isn’t worth it. He yawns again before scrunching up his mouth and biting his lip, trying to gauge how deeply asleep Pete is by the sound of his snoring.</p><p>(He refuses to think about what his intimate familiarity with the timbre and pitch of Pete’s snoring means. It’s certainly not <em> domestic</em>, and it’s definitely not weird, it’s just the kind of thing close mates know about each other. Pete probably knows what his snoring sounds like, and he definitely doesn’t have a big embarrassing gay crush on Stitch, so there.)</p><p>Stitch shakes himself out of <em> that </em>particular thought spiral. Fuck it, Pete’s zonked-- he’s snoring like a motor, and anyway, it’s not like he’s going to barge in on Stitch in the shower.</p><p>Still, he tries to be a bit stealthy as he hobbles to the bathroom. Pete’s snores show no sign of abating, and Stitch huffs a fond little laugh. Fucking Pete. He knows well enough not to give into the temptation to go look in on him, though, not like this. He’s not a pervert, and a morning stiffy’s got <em> nothing to do with Pete</em>, anyway. He closes the bathroom door as quietly as he can, trying to shove away the feeling that he’s getting away with something sneaky.</p><p>Pyjamas get piled up on the toilet and Stitch sighs a little, wriggling his shoulders under the shower spray and grimacing as it takes its sweet time warming up to the early-morning rattle of pipes. Even too cold, it washes away the stale, lingering cobwebs of drink from last night, and he tilts his head back into it, scrubbing at his scalp with both hands and shaking his head like a dog. Once it’s warmed up a little, he lets his hand drop to his dick. There’s no need to rush through a wank in a cold shower, even if Pete is asleep in the other room. </p><p>At that thought, his cock twitches, and Stitch flushes hot. Yeah, he’s been pulling himself off to thoughts (and sometimes photos) of Pete for years, but somehow doing it while he’s asleep feet away feels like a violation in a way that that doesn’t.</p><p>But luckily, just after he’s woken up is one of the few times Stitch’s brain isn’t running itself in perpetual anxious circles, so he leans back against the shower wall and closes his eyes, letting himself be not-quite-awake, sleepy-stupid and warm under the water. One hand on his cock and toying with his foreskin, and the other pinching at his nipple, letting the warmth build in his body. Fuck, that’s nice. He sucks in a breath and holds it like a balloon in his chest to keep himself silent, and starts jerking himself off in earnest.</p><p>It’s not gonna take long. He’s using all the little tricks he likes best, nothing but efficient pleasure, jerking himself hard and using just a little bit of nail as he tugs at his nipple, and the closer he gets, the more his world narrows. Just the sound of the water splattering off tiles and the heavy warmth of the steam, the sultry dark of the backs of his eyelids and the heat tightening up his balls and the sound of Pete’s voice--</p><p>-- the sound of Pete’s voice?</p><p>‘Oi, Stitch, I need a wee, alright? Don’t mind us, I’ll just be a mo--’</p><p>Pete’s already opening the door as he’s saying it, all in the half-a-heartbeat it takes for Stitch to realise what’s happening, all at once, barely enough time for Stitch’s eyes to snap open in horror and the back of his neck to seize hot with mortified goosebumps.</p><p>‘--ment’, Pete finishes and looks up and, met with the ludicrous tableau of Stitch caught mid-wank-- hand on his cock and face probably all hideously red and twisted up-- bursts out laughing. His stupid sleepy eyes go huge and he claps his hands to his mouth, giggling helplessly.</p><p>‘Aw, Stitch!’</p><p>‘P<em>ete </em>, for fuckssake, you don’t--’</p><p>You don’t just <em> walk in on someone</em>, he means to say. You fucking knock first and ask if you can come in, especially if you’re at their place; you afford them the bare minimum of privacy, for fuckssake you barbarian, these are basic manners even a child is supposed to know, why can Pete Sweet not grasp this basic, <em> basic </em> shit. He means to say all of that, to really haul off on Pete, except he’s so incredibly mortified, so <em> humiliated </em>and exposed that all he can do is sort of helplessly flail.</p><p>Except that a flail when you’re trying to keep your junk covered is more of a weird full-body wriggle, and the next moment, Stitch’s feet are sliding out from under him and knocking into the bath wall and he’s falling, yelping and throwing out his arms to try and catch himself. He’s scrambling like bloody Wile E. Coyote trying to keep running in midair, except it’s Stitch with his fucking dick out and flopping around while he smacks off at least three separate surfaces on his way down to collapse on the floor of the bath. He ends up pretzelled in a way that still leaves him completely exposed, his back and shins smarting and his cock still horribly enthusiastic as Pete guffaws from the door.</p><p>Stitch scowls, wriggling to try and right himself under the spray without exposing himself to Pete anymore than he already has. ‘You don’t just <em> walk in</em>’, he snaps. ‘You <em> knock</em>, you stupid bastard. Get the fuck out, go piss in the sink or something, I don’t care, just--’</p><p>His voice is actually wobbling a little, which is so acutely humiliating Stitch can feel the flush going all the way down to his arse.</p><p>Pete, infuriatingly, is actually looking-- what, fond? Pitying? Certainly amused, because he won’t stop <em> cackling</em>, and Stitch refuses to feel bad anymore about masturbating in the room next to him. ‘Aww, Stitch, everybody does it! It’s not a big deal, a little morning tug.’</p><p>‘<em>Pete</em>!’ </p><p>‘It ain’t!’ Pete insists, all wide-eyed like he genuinely has no idea why Stitch might be upset or humiliated or might feel violated. He’s grinning like this is all the funniest joke he’s ever heard, and isn’t that just <em> great</em>, Stitch just <em> loves </em>the idea that Pete thinks the idea of him having a wank is a great fucking jape. </p><p>He scowls and scrabbles for the shower curtain, pettishly trying to pull it over for at least a little privacy, but the rings get stuck on the shower rod and the curtain won’t move more than an inch. Pete laughs even harder at the spectacle of Stitch’s uselessness, and eventually, all he can do is shove his hands down to cover up his dick, curled up like a pathetic beetle as the shower continues unfeelingly raining down on him.</p><p>‘Ain’t your morning, is it?’ Pete snickers, and Stitch throws a washcloth at him.</p><p>‘Piss off’, Stitch snaps. ‘Leave me to my humiliation.’</p><p>And Pete, thank god, finally takes the hint and turns to go, still chuckling as he does. ‘I’ll make you a cuppa, shall I?’</p><p>‘Out!’</p><p>The door shuts behind Pete with a creak, and Stitch groans vehemently. When he’s finally able to get himself to his feet, he turns the water down as cold as it’ll go and stubbornly refuses to finish himself off. Blue balls he can deal with; he can <em> not </em>deal with Pete laughing over the fact that Stitch is having a wank in the other room. It’s not pleasant, but frankly nothing about this morning has been fucking pleasant, so apparently that’s just par for the course. He scowls and soaps himself down with probably unnecessary aggression.</p><p>When he finally comes out to the kitchen (his own kitchen! In his own flat, where he should have some privacy!) fully dressed, Pete greets him with a sunny smile, irritatingly charming bedhead, and a cup of tea made just the way Stitch likes it. Stitch eyes him distrustfully, prepared for further mockery, but Pete only gives him a teasing little poke in the arm.</p><p>‘Toldja I was gonna make you a cuppa, didn’t I? It ain’t gonna bite you.’</p><p>‘Fuck off’, Stitch mutters, but he takes the tea, and Pete shakes his head and laughs and goes to make toast. He makes it with just the right ratio of butter to jam, which only makes Stitch angrier.</p><p>~~~~~~~~~</p><p>There's a bruise on the small of his back for a week, and he can’t look Pete in the face.</p><p>The bruise isn’t really the problem, though, and Stitch is always bad at eye contact, so that’s hardly anything new. The real problem is that suddenly Stitch can’t think about sodding anything else. It hadn’t even been about Pete, it honestly hadn’t! Stitch had been <em> so careful </em>not to think about Pete, not to make it weird or creepy or pervy, and now that’s all his brain ever wants to think about. He’ll be at work explaining to teenage girls that no, they don’t have any Britney Spears, maybe try a Cardigans album instead, and suddenly his head’s full of himself on the tub floor, achingly hard and sore and humiliated while Pete giggles above him. And then he’s got some teenager in lipgloss and a dozen pigtails looking at him like he’s nuts and asking (probably for like the third time) how much it is for Gran Turismo. It’s a lot.</p><p>And <em> that</em>, that’s probably the worst thing of it all. It was mortifying, Pete walking in on him like that, so fucking humiliating, but apparently the humiliation is part of the appeal?? It’s a whole aspect of his sexuality he really had not been aware of until this particular moment, and that’s just an added layer of humiliation on top of it all, which just compounds until Stitch is as collectively miserable and horny as he’s been since he was fifteen. Like, great, not only is he a homosexual in love with his best friend, he also apparently wants to be humiliated by him. </p><p>Pete, infuriatingly, seems not to be thinking about it at all. He’s as blithe and sunny as ever, hugging Stitch or making easy eye contact without so much as a blush, while Stitch internally crumples like a ball of aluminium foil in a fist. He’s evidently far too occupied with his imaginary girlfriend and all the alleyways he can fuck her in to have any opinion at all about having caught Stitch having a wank. Then again, given all the things Stitch sees Pete getting up to with Poppy on the regular, maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that Pete is so utterly unfazed by the whole thing.</p><p>Stitch has the <em> worst </em>taste in men, he really does.</p><p>He starts dreaming about it, waking up and frantically jerking himself off into a sock, too desperate to wait. It’s there when he’s in the shower in the morning, and creeping into his thoughts at night when he’s lying awake and staring up at the streetlights striping the ceiling.</p><p>It’s too easy to slip into thinking about how he could make that happen again. If Pete’s going to be so casual about it, what would it hurt, even? Pete would probably just think it was funny, probably just laugh it off like getting caught in increasingly improbable situations mid-wank is an amusing new quirk of Stitch’s. Pete’s too thick, too much of an exhibitionist to probably even think about it as a violation.</p><p>It’s thoughts like that invariably bring the unfolding of Stitch’s tangled thoughts to a messy halt, because fuck, is he really thinking about actually violating Pete’s privacy like that? He knows himself well enough to know that he’s sometimes kind of a dick, but is he <em> that </em>much of a dick, to take advantage of his best mate like that? Even though Pete didn’t think it was that big a deal, the unscrupulous part of himself whispers, even though Pete laughed it off, even though Pete’s understanding of personal sexual boundaries is already basically nil. </p><p>Thinking about it that way, it wouldn’t be <em> that </em>bad, would it? And Pete wouldn’t have to catch him at it, wouldn’t have to know (Stitch wants him to know he wants to be caught oh god he wants Pete to barge in on him and mock him for being desperate and pathetic and unable to control himself, to put a foot on his chest and watch while he comes too soon and preen about how much Stitch wants him; he wants him to know how much Stitch wants him, god, he does, he wishes--)</p><p>Stitch tries his best to ignore those thoughts, but it’s hard, now they’ve insinuated their way into the back of his brain, not to think about when and how he might contrive to have Pete walk in on him again. </p><p>It’s even harder when Pete nearly gets arrested for shagging Poppy in a park. Pete cackles as he tells the story later like it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him, and a deep ugly jealousy wells up in Stitch’s chest, clutching at the inside of his ribcage. If Pete can wave his willy all over Shoreditch and screw his imaginary girlfriend where anyone could see them, why not Stitch? Why can’t Stitch ever have one thing he wants? He might be a fucking pervert in love with his best mate, but at least his dirty fantasies don’t involve the actual police catching him balls-deep up against a tree. Stitch deserves to get his way just once.</p><p>He just needs to figure out how to make that happen. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>THE THIRD TIME</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Going out always puts Stitch in kind of a strange mood, especially when a night out planned with just Pete and a few mates manages to collect friends of friends and girlfriends and boyfriends and then suddenly it’s a Group Activity. He tends to end up strung between the impulses to hide in a corner and to act the arse to get a reaction out of people and usually lands somewhere awkwardly in the middle, full of uncomfortably manic energy that other people don’t know what to do with. </p><p>Tonight he’s had a couple bumps of coke off someone’s friend’s girlfriend along with the Kir Royales he’s drinking, and that helps. The jittering mania feels comfortable, confident where it usually doesn’t. Who gives a shit if he looks like an idiot? They all look like idiots together, and isn’t that the point? Him and his dumb, young mates out on the town to do young, dumb, sexy things. Pete’s a fucking moron and he’s the brightest thing in the room, the poster child for young, dumb, and sexy. He’s there without even having to try, and maybe that shouldn’t be attractive, but it very, very much is.</p><p>They keep losing each other in the club and the crowd, distracted with dancing and new people and Very Important Conversations that Stitch can’t remember a thing about the moment they’re finished, but every time he hoves back into Stitch’s field of vision, it arrests him. Whatever insignificant thing he’d been thinking or talking about crashes into a buffer stop of <em> PetePetePete</em>, the memory of him standing over Stitch in the bathroom and the flashglow of disco lights off the highlights in his hair and the way his ugly 70’s shirt clings to his little tits. Stitch’s balls tingle. </p><p>‘Yeah, for sure’, he says distractedly to the girl he’s talking to-- Veronica or Vinnie or Victoria or something. ‘Later?’ Easy, charming, and it seems to work, because she turns away to order a drink and Stitch is left to watch Pete across the room. </p><p>He’s hidden from the waist down, but Stitch can imagine his hips, knows exactly how he’s probably moving, imagines slotting himself behind Pete to grind. Or better, Pete turning him over the side of the bathtub and fucking him right then and there because that’s clearly what Stitch is aching for, ain’t it? If he’s that much of a desperate little slag, he’s been thinking about Pete’s cock up his arse, innee? He can deal with the bruises on his hips later.</p><p>Stitch blinks out of the fantasy, surprised to suddenly taste blood. He hadn’t even realised he’d been biting his lip.</p><p>Pete’s got his arms up over his head as he sways to the music, sweatstains on the pits, eyes closed, mouth open and laughing. The flashing lights reflect off his suddenly open eyes as he turns and spots Stitch, and Stitch feels the sudden eye contact like a punch to the gut. Pete grins and throws Stitch a wink and then goes back to dancing, and it feels like <em> fire</em>. Now’s the night, Stitch knows it. All of a sudden he just <em> knows it</em>. The loos here are single occupancy, and neither Poppy nor Daisy are here, and there’s Pete all laughing and flirty and dancing; he’d be into it, he’d <em> love </em> it, he’s a filthy fucking exhibitionist. Stitch doesn’t know why he even ever doubted his plan when it’s so clearly <em> genius</em>. His cock’s starting to swell already, and he’s seen the way Pete gets when he’s out dancing, no shame at all-- yes, fuck, yes, it’s gonna be perfect.</p><p>He downs the rest of his Kir Royale and elbows his way through to the loos, grinning so hard it makes his cheeks hurt. The rest of the crowd doesn’t even register as he passes through them; one moment he’s at the bar, and the next he’s in the back corridor with its line of grotty doors and fluorescent lights reflecting dully off the black-painted cinderblock walls. </p><p>A moment later he’s in one of the single-use loos with his back up against the door, breathing in the smell of stale booze and cologne and urinal cakes. It’s fucking filthy and perfect. The walls had been painted a dark red at one point, but now they’re covered in peeling band stickers and posters for rallies and scratched and scribbled graffiti. The mirror too-- a scratched message over the reflection of Stitch’s face says <em> WON’T BE CAUGHT, WON’T BE SOLD</em>, and a sticker over his left shoulder advertises <em> TRIPPY HOUSE </em>in colour-shifting, holographic font. </p><p>A laugh spills up from his chest and out in a gust of air, hand already on his dick through his trousers. The walls are probably sticky, he can imagine exactly how it’ll feel when Pete pushes him up against them, can imagine the steam of his breath against the back of Stitch’s neck when he laughs.</p><p>He’s gripped by a moment of terror when he actually gets his dick out, a furtive rush of the knowledge that he <em> is not supposed to be doing this</em>. His gaze flicks down to the reflection of the doorknob in the mirror and he licks his lips and strokes his cock and the moment passes. All he needs is to be quiet, no-one’s going to catch him except Pete. His breath shudders in his throat in the cool humidity of the loo, seeing it all unfold on the back of his eyelids.</p><p><em> You slut, Stitch, oh my god! </em> Laughing as he says it. <em>You that randy for me you couldn’t wait? Had to go at it where anyone coulda caught you? Or is it just filthy public toilets what do it for you? Maybe you oughtta get down on your knees, then, if you’re such a dirty little pervert, suck me off all nice right here-- an’ then maybe I’ll let you get off, yeah? Nuh-uh, you ain’t locking the door! Didn’t have it locked before, did you? I want you sucking my cock where anyone could bust in an’ see what a slag you are, g’on. </em></p><p>‘Fuck’, he breathes, eyelids fluttering open as he gropes for his mobile in his pocket. He’s panting as quietly as he can, his cock twitching and swollen as he strokes himself. He feels fucking massive; he feels like a sex god.</p><p>His fingers tremble with excitement as he finally fishes his mobile out, pressing the wrong buttons in his uncoordinated haste. ‘Right, fuck, c’mon you bastard.’ He’s laughing breathily as he pulls up Pete’s contact information and laboriously types out a message.</p><p>
  <em> ‘lol i acccidenuly pissed myslf a little . come help me clean up?? imin th fhrst toilet on the left. dont bnther knocking lol’ </em>
</p><p>It’s the best thing he can think of; they’ve been blackout drunk together enough times that Pete’ll just think it’s funny instead of weird or overstepping. And now… he just has to wait. His heart is <em> hammering</em>; he doesn’t know how much is anticipation and how much is just the cocaine. It jitters out through his whole body, thumpthumpthump from the balls of his feet to the hollow above his diaphragm and all the way to the base of his throat. He’s jerking himself off in time to his hammering pulse because he can’t <em> not </em> , can’t seem to slow himself down even though the last thing he wants is to come before Pete barges in and catches him at it. It’s just so <em> good </em>, so dirty and terrifying.</p><p>And then his phone rings. Stitch’s heart trips over a couple of beats, palpitating wildly under his sternum, and he fumbles to open the text alert. It’s Pete. There’s a moment of incomprehension-- why’s he texting Stitch back? Why hasn’t he just come back here like he’s supposed to?</p><p>
  <em> 'lmaooooo sry m8 we all left 2 go 2 herbal! culdnt find u thot maybe ud left. com join us! just dry urself off w bog roll n spill a drnk on urself lol no1 will kno' </em>
</p><p>It’s so not what was supposed to have happened that his brain can’t parse it for a moment. Pete isn’t here? Pete’s <em> left</em>? Pete’s left and Stitch has been having a wank in an <em> unlocked public toilet </em> where anyone could have walked in on him, oh fuck, oh <em> fuck </em>, what was he thinking?</p><p>He fumbles desperately to slot closed the lock on the door, his heart still pounding but now in a distinctly unpleasant fashion. He’s hot and cold all at once, sweaty in the unfriendly chill of the room, and he stumbles over to sit on the toilet. He’s suddenly distressingly aware of the metallic taste coating the back of his palate and throat, the way the gums behind his teeth are uncomfortably numb-- he wants to lie down somewhere. He contemplates the loo floor for a moment before dismissing it. God, no more fucking terrible decisions tonight; the last thing he needs is to pass out on the floor and have some hassled bartender find him later. </p><p>He puts his elbows on his knees, hunching over his now-wilted erection and trying to breathe evenly. All those tantalising thoughts of sexual humiliation have shifted into the cold reality of actual humiliation and he feels a little sick. Fuck, he needs another drink.</p><p>After several long moments of just breathing, he pulls open the message from Pete to text him back.</p><p>
  <em> ‘ya mbbe . ill c u in a bit’ </em>
</p><p>He can’t manage anything more enthusiastic than that just at the moment. It’s about all he can handle, frankly, to keep himself more or less upright on the toilet, pressing his temple against the wall and breathing through his nose, his jaw clenched. What a fucking <em> moron</em>. Selfish, short-sighted-- he feels ill. He should go home and never leave his flat again. He should move back to Leeds. He should dig himself a hole on the Ilkley Moors and just decompose there until he’s one with the earth and not a socially inept fuckup imposing himself on his one friend.</p><p>It takes him-- some amount of time, he’s not sure how long, but he does eventually come out of the loos after the worst of the crash has faded, and he doesn’t flee either to his flat or back to Leeds. He gets himself another drink, calls Pete to see if they’re all still at Herbal, and eventually meets up with the rest of the group. He’s weird and twitchy for the rest of the night, but then, he’s usually weird and twitchy. No-one seems to register any difference. </p><p>He grimaces when he wakes up the next day and the memories of the night before all break over his consciousness like a cold and unfriendly wave. This is clearly not working; he needs to talk to someone, get his thoughts straight.</p><p>~~~~~~~~~</p><p>Zinnia’s a friend of a friend of Poppy’s; she’s imaginary too. Stitch gets a bit self-conscious just on his own with imaginary people, like he doesn’t have enough to bring to the conversation to keep it going, but this time he can’t think who else he could talk to. He feels a bit bad about it if he thinks too hard, like he’s using her just because she’s imaginary. If he’s honest with himself, he’s only gone to Zinnia because she <em> couldn’t </em>tell Pete even if she wanted to-- there’s a level of mutual imagination required when it comes to talking to imaginary people, and Pete couldn’t possibly imagine Stitch telling Zinnia the things he’s going to tell her. She’s safe. But she’s a sport, and Stitch is selfish, so he doesn’t feel too bad about it, not for too long anyway.</p><p>She’s got kind of a butch Scary Spice vibe going on today, and she gives Stitch the impression of a wry eyebrow as he rambles through his thoughts. The beer he’d grabbed for her had become vaguely incorporeal as soon as she started drinking it, but the condensation ring on the table is distinctly non-imaginary.</p><p><em> You’ve been watching too much porn, mate</em>, she says when he trails off, and Stitch scowls.</p><p>‘What?’</p><p>She laughs. <em> That’s porn logic! What, you get yourself caught and he’s just so overcome by lust that he has to join in? Does Poppy join too? Sexy coed thing? </em></p><p>‘No, ew!’ He wrinkles his nose at that immediate, embarrassingly juvenile reaction, and Zinnia laughs at him again. He gets the impression of the glint of light off a nose ring.</p><p>
  <em> Course, I forgot, no trendy bisexual chic for you. </em>
</p><p>Zinnia, he’s fairly certain, is bi, and not in a particularly trendy way, so he guesses he gets the mockery in her tone, but he doesn’t need her taking the piss right now. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m a big old poofter, this isn’t news to anyone. Look, I’m just saying, do you think-- I mean, d’you think it’s a terrible idea or what?’</p><p>Zinnia takes a long, thoughtful drink of her beer, long enough for Stitch to wonder if he’s the reason she’s being such an arse right now, if it’s just that he’s imagining her that way. The whole business gives him a headache. Eventually, she gives him a dry but not unsympathetic look over her wrist. </p><p>
  <em> Look, Stitch. I think the first thing you wanna ask yourself is if you really wanna try and break up Pete and Poppy like that. Like, get your brain out of your dick for a minute-- </em>
</p><p>‘Oi!’</p><p>
  <em> --and think about what’s probably gonna happen even if it does work, right? </em>
</p><p>Stitch presses his calves together under the table and his lips together over the table in an effort not to squirm. He knows he’s being selfish, he knows it, but, <em> but </em>. </p><p>‘What, so it’s fine for Pete to juggle Poppy and some other real girl but if I wanna try my chance then suddenly I’m the arsehole?’</p><p>He has a moment of triumph when Zinnia sucks in a breath at that, the impression of a mouth pursing and eyes going narrow-- hah! a point! she hadn’t known <em> that, </em>had she?-- but an instant later he feels like a cunt. </p><p>‘... Bugger.’</p><p>Zinnia drains her beer. She really knows how to let an awkward silence stretch out, and Stitch scowls across the table at her, recognising another of his own tactics turned back on him. Eventually, she huffs.</p><p><em> Yeah, you two deserve each other and all. I still think it’s a dumb fucking idea. Pete’ll probably go for it cos he’s the least discerning person I’ve ever met, but d’you really wanna be the </em> third <em> bit on the side he’s got going? </em></p><p>Stitch huffs a breath. ‘Fair enough.’ </p><p>It’s a good point, and even though he can’t bring himself to really think about what he’s trying to <em> accomplish </em> with this, it certainly isn’t that. But she’s given him another thought, a little bright kernel of apperception in the back of his mind, which is that Pete <em> is </em> being awfully cavalier with Poppy and Daisy’s feelings right now, and really if someone cared about either of the two girls, they ought to let them know. Just for their sake. Something darkly anticipatory curls in his gut at the thought, a quickening of his heartbeat of <em> what if</em>, but he keeps that to himself just for now. Zinnia doesn’t need to know everything, after all. And if he did say something to someone and it did mess things up for Pete, well, Pete’s got it coming. Everything can’t be perfect and easy for Pete Sweet.</p><p>They spend the rest of the evening finishing off Stitch’s beer and watching the football, with Zinnia shouting genially at the telly as they go. Stitch feels more settled than he has for weeks, and he lets himself get into it, even though imaginary Zinnia is far more up on her Whites knowledge than actually-from-Leeds Stitch. It turns into a pretty good night, all things considered. </p><p>He gives Daisy a call a few days later, asking her to meet him down the pub. The dark, curling thing in his belly has morphed into a jittering anxiety of smug anticipation, and it’s all he can manage to tell her that Pete’s sleeping with someone else before he has to flee. Daisy’s left behind him, gaping in shock at his barely-touched lager, but Stitch hustles back to his flat to await the fallout.</p><p>It… doesn’t go the way he’d hoped.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>THE FOURTH TIME</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Stitch is a little startled, a sunny Monday morning a couple weeks after Pete had clocked him in the front room of the Elephant’s Head, when he picks up the phone in his flat to find Pete on the other end. ‘Alright, Stitch?’</p><p>Pete doesn’t sound cross or mopey or like he wants to have a capital letter Conversation, just his usual blithe self, and even though Stitch is perfectly aware that Pete can’t hold a grudge to save his life, he can’t help waiting for the other shoe to drop. ‘Pete, alright. What’s up?’</p><p>‘Not much! I’ve got a bit of cleaning to do later; you wanna come over and play with the puppies, keep ‘em outta me hair?’ The phone crackles with Pete’s laughter. ‘I reckon they think they’re cats; they always wanna get into any boxes I’ve got out. I don’t wanna pack up a dog on accident!’</p><p>It’s the kind of thing they do all the time-- used to do all the time?-- just hanging out and coexisting in the same place, chatting about nothing in particular, and a little bit of that anxious tightness in Stitch’s chest loosens. He doesn’t love the puppies the same way Pete does, but animals can’t judge him for being a weirdo, and that’s always nice. So: ‘Yeah, alright’, he says. ‘See you in like an hour?’</p><p>‘Genius! See you then, mate.’</p><p>And that’s it-- that simple. It’s always that simple for Pete, seems like, and Stitch grimaces.</p><p>It’s not like Stitch has been actively <em> avoiding </em> Pete since their fight outside the pub, and Pete hasn’t had a go at him since then. Indeed, as his blood had cooled a little in the following days, he’d seemed dismayed at the taut bruise he’d left on Stitch’s cheekbone, grimacing and tutting and apologising for ‘going mental on you like that.’ And they’ve seen each other at work and everything, of course, all totally normal, but Stitch has been-- well, he’s been keeping himself to himself a bit. It seems like every time he tries to <em> do </em> something, it backfires on him, so he’s just been trying to <em> not. </em></p><p>This is the thing; when a thought-- a plan, a desire-- gets into Stitch’s head, he can’t shake it. He obsesses, he turns it over and over in his thoughts and he can’t relax until he’s scratched the itch. He’s not like Pete, flitting heedlessly from one shiny thing to the next, Pete who seems able to just casually shrug off infatuations once they’ve passed him by. So the thing he probably should have done-- taken the fight as a chance to just confess everything, tell Pete how he felt about him-- he hadn’t. He’d snapped right back at Pete-- <em> Daisy had a right to know, not my fault they ran off together, is it? You were happy enough when you got your little threesomes, </em> and <em> I’m not </em> jealous<em>, you know I’m fucking gay, right? </em>-- and then he’d gone home afterwards and had a pathetic, furious, amazing wank with his cheek and his stomach sore from Pete’s blows.</p><p>So it’s complicated. It’s weird, and even though they’ve both apologised, neither of them has really said what for, and they certainly haven’t just casually hung out at Pete’s place since then.</p><p>You wouldn’t think it from the way Pete greets him at the door to his building, smile so bright it makes something in Stitch’s chest stutter. ‘Stitch!’ He practically shouts it, going in right away for a tummy-touch with pinchy little crab hands, and Stitch laughs a little-- confused, helpless nerves-- and swats his hands away.</p><p>‘Hey now, don’t touch me, never touch me.’</p><p>Pete doesn’t even bother looking hurt or disappointed, he just laughs and shakes his head like Stitch is the drollest thing, pointing delighted fingerguns at him. ‘Ahhhh, you’re such a joker!’</p><p>It feels like an olive branch, something Pete is offering out even if Stitch doesn’t really understand why. He’s still waiting for the floor to fall out from under him, but, well, that’s his cue, isn’t it? </p><p>‘Eyyyyyyyy!’ It sounds weak and unconvincing to his ears, but he points right back at Pete, who smiles that vague, loopy smile of his up at Stitch and immediately goes in at Stitch’s belly again to lay his hand flat against its embarrassing curve. Stitch tenses, but he doesn’t smack Pete’s hand away, and after a moment, Pete retreats, grinning over his shoulder at Stitch as he leads them up the stairs. </p><p>There’s a confusing anxiety twisting itself up in Stitch’s chest-- not wholly a <em> bad </em> feeling, just the bewildered conviction that <em> something is happening</em>, or is going to happen, a significance. Pete, of course, seems utterly oblivious, chattering happily as they walk.</p><p>‘C’mon! I’ve got puppy treats out and all so you can bribe ‘em. Squeak’s started trying to chew on cords, so you’ll probably have to keep an eye on her, yeah? But they love you, you oughtta be fine.’</p><p>The puppies, indeed, seem absolutely over the moon when he and Pete come in, jumping up to put their little paws on Stitch’s shins, yelping and squeaking and whining, tongues lolling out and tiny hindquarters wriggling. Pete immediately drops down into a crouch, cooing and ruffling up their ears and kissing them on their foreheads while Stitch stands awkwardly behind him, reflecting wryly that it’s no wonder Pete’s a dog man. Stitch is much better suited to cats. Or fish.</p><p>There are a couple of boxes sitting out, dusty in the ribs of sunlight striking through the half-pulled blinds, one of them half-full with things Stitch can’t quite make out. </p><p>‘Some’a Poppy’s things’, Pete says casually by way of explanation, standing up to hand both dogs over to Stitch. The casualness doesn’t even sound forced, like Poppy were an old roommate and not a messy ex. ‘She had a whole bunch of her stuff still lying around-- she an’ Daisy’re gonna come over and pick it all up sometime this week; figured I’d make the job easier for them.’</p><p>The puppies are wriggling contentedly against Stitch’s chest as he clutches them, and he blinks over at Pete, who laughs, apparently misunderstanding his confusion.</p><p>‘See?’ He points at the box with the indiscernible contents. ‘That one’s got some hair stuff and makeup and like, underwear and that.’ The things in the box do indeed come into focus once Pete names them, and Stitch doesn’t bother correcting Pete’s misapprehension. </p><p>‘It’s not a <em> lot </em>of stuff, it’s just kind of everywhere, you know? You’re a diamond, Stitch, cheers.’</p><p>‘Course’, Stitch murmurs, scooping up the bag of dog treats and heading into the bedroom to try and keep the puppies occupied while Pete cleans.</p><p>The anxious tautness in his chest is taking its sweet time processing what he’s feeling, but it feels encouraging, he thinks. Slow and warm, but it feels<em> good</em>, how casual Pete’s being about Poppy and Daisy, and the fact that he’d want Stitch there while he packs up Poppy’s stuff even moreso. Feels certainly like he’s not blaming Stitch anymore for being chucked-- and in fairness, it had only <em> partially </em>been Stitch’s fault. Only maybe like twenty percent of the fault.</p><p>Is he a pervert for thinking about whether he’s got a chance with Pete again now, while he’s playing with his puppies? Probably, but Stitch is choosing to ignore that. </p><p>So he idly plays with Bubble and Squeak (he’d had to dissuade Pete from naming them Spag and Bol when he adopted them, because seriously, Pete, seriously), occasionally having to get down on his elbows to haul Squeak out from chewing on the lamp cord under the bed. There’s an ambient noise of Pete moving around the flat, humming or conducting a little monologue to himself, doing the hoovering, and it’s… nice, honestly. It feels domestic.</p><p>It’s probably a step too far to immediately leap to the assumption that Pete’s forgiven him for everything, but it’s hard not to feel a little like it, in this moment. The flat is afternoon-warm in a sleepy, dusty, pleasant way, and Pete wants him there not even to do something together, just to be there, to take care of his dogs. Pete starts whistling tunelessly in the background as he works, and Stitch shakes his head at himself at the upwelling of warmth that inspires. Stupid, stupid.</p><p>By the time Pete swings around to the bedroom, the puppies have fallen asleep and Stitch is leaning against the bedframe, one leg stretched out over the rug and the other bent up to his chest.</p><p>‘Alright?’ Pete pops his head around the doorjamb with a grin. He’s a little pink in the cheeks and his hair’s fluffed up from cleaning; Stitch has to bite the inside of his cheek. ‘How’re me favourite girls doing?’</p><p>Stitch pulls an elaborately dubious face. ‘Think you might’ve made a mistake there’, he says dryly, and Pete cackles, as he’d hoped he would. ‘But the <em> dogs </em>have worn themselves out. How’s the packing up going?’</p><p>Pete drops down onto the floor next to Stitch, reaching out to give the snoring Bubble a tummy rub. ‘Sawright! I think I’ve got most of everything? I keep finding things like hidden under cushions an’ that. Stuffed in cupboards.’</p><p>The question’s niggling at the back of his brain, and it’s probably a bad idea to ask, but Pete’s just acting so <em> normal </em>about all of this, like there hadn’t been a fight at all, like he hadn’t been moping around all heartbroken after Poppy and Daisy after they went off together. Stitch is historically terrible at pointing out elephants when they wander into rooms, but it feels too strange to not acknowledge it now. He tries to make his voice as neutral as possible. ‘Is it... weird? Just packing all her stuff up into boxes like that?’</p><p>Pete scrunches up his nose-- his adorably obvious thinking face. ‘I mean, yeah, a bit. But ‘salways like that, innit, after a breakup?’</p><p>Stitch huffs a wry laugh. ‘Very philosophical of you.’</p><p>It isn’t even meant to be a joke, but Pete laughs like it is. ‘Philosophical! No-one’s ever called me that before! Think probably I oughtta be able to spell it first! But nah, ‘sawright, really.’ He leans in to bump shoulders with Stitch, smiling that sunny, ingenuous smile. ‘Least I got you, eh, Stitch?’</p><p>Stitch’s breath actually snags under his sternum, his idiot homosexual heart flip-flopping like a landed fish and his idiot homosexual bollocks fizzing hopefully. ‘Yeah’, he manages, trying not to swallow too obviously.</p><p>Pete grins at him again and ruffles his hair. ‘Alright, well, you guys have fun. You wanna order in a kebab after I’m done?’</p><p>Stitch nods through the ringing in his ears-- yeah, sure, of course-- and then Pete’s out of the room and back to his cleaning and Stitch is left with the growing heat in his stomach and the revelation that <em> now </em> is the time. It’s been in his head for months now and he’s been an idiot about it, but now-- it’s just them, he’s sober, Pete’s being affectionate even by Pete’s standards. His breath’s sped up just thinking about it, his heart thudding down in his bollocks. And Pete-- well, he seems to have forgiven Stitch for ratting him out to Daisy, so even if this doesn’t turn out like he hopes, he’ll probably forgive him for this too. Probably. Hopefully.</p><p>He quietly closes the bedroom door on the napping puppies and sneaks to the bathroom, his pulse pounding with excitement. Terror, too, but an inexplicably sexy terror. He’s been fantasising about Pete catching him wanking for months, and now it feels like the stars have aligned-- the perfect moment has been presented to Stitch, and he’s going to take it. He only half-closes the door to the bathroom; he wants Pete to be able to barge in on him, after all.</p><p>He’s already half-hard and his mouth’s gone dry by the time he’s leaning against the wall and unzipping his fly. Pete’s in the next room over, Stitch can hear him, ready to catch him with his jeans halfway down his arse, ready to take the piss out of him for being desperate and unable to control himself. It’s the easiest thing in the world to imagine, as he shoves his pants down and fondles his cock, stroking himself to full hardness: Pete’s perfect pornographic mouth, Pete laughing and telling Stitch to keep going, to get down on the floor like the dirty boy he is, Pete sitting on the edge of the bath and pinning him with a foot on his chest, Pete making him squirm. (And maybe, maybe-- probably? realistically?-- Pete laughing in delight afterwards, crowing gleefully about how genius that was, can they do it again? Could they? God, maybe--)</p><p>Stitch presses his forehead against the wall, shoving his wrist in his mouth to bite down as he jerks himself off. There’s the unmistakable noises of masturbation, that quiet, wet, rhythmic slap, but that’s too quiet, not enough for Pete to notice while he’s clattering around the flat cleaning. But the sink is lined with bottles-- hair product, aftershave, deodorant-- and Stitch huffs a little laugh, feeling a victorious flip somewhere around his diaphragm. Perfect.</p><p>He flails out with the hand not on his cock and knocks the lot of them into the sink.</p><p>The clatter is louder than he’d even anticipated, and there’s a pause in the ambient noise of Pete’s cleaning. After a moment, he raises his voice from the other room. ‘You alright, mate?’</p><p>Stitch doesn’t say anything, just gulps in a breath as he twists his hand, sliding his foreskin over the head of his cock and back again, slick and easy as anything. </p><p>‘Oi, Stitch, you ain’t fallen over or nothing, have you?’</p><p>Still, he says nothing, and the pause out in the rest of the flat continues. He can imagine the furrow to Pete’s brow, the little huff of breath when he realises that he should probably go and actually check on Stitch. The floorboards creak with Pete’s footsteps, and Stitch’s breath comes faster and faster and then--</p><p>It’s just like the first time in so many ways: Pete frozen in the doorway, eyes wide and hands clapped over his mouth, bursting into shocked laughter. ‘Stitch! Fucking hell!’</p><p>Just like the first time, Pete is operating under the assumption that he’s caught Stitch out unexpectedly, ready to take the piss but not too seriously. ‘You shoulda just said you needed a moment!’ he laughs.</p><p>But Stitch doesn’t yelp this time, or flail, or try to cover himself up, just freezes, flushed and hand around his cock, a sudden spike of guilt spearing through his gut that <em> what if Pete isn’t into it after all, what if he ruins everything, what if--? </em>But he doesn’t move, just stays where he is, hunched over and breathing hard. And something must be showing on his face-- guilt? smugness?-- because after a moment, Pete’s laughter fades and he lowers his hands, his mouth twitching around a confused smile.</p><p>Stitch swallows, and his cock twitches. Pete’s gaze flicks down and his brow furrows.</p><p>‘You alright, mate? You ain’t gonna, you know--’ he pantomimes a flailing fall, pulling a ridiculous face of mock-distress, and Stitch flushes and sucks a breath in through his nose.</p><p>‘Nah’, he mutters. He has no idea what else to say.</p><p>And then, after an unbearable pause, Pete bursts into more laughter. Stitch’s whole body flushes cold and then hot in mortification, muscles tensing up in anticipation, but Pete’s laughter isn’t cruel, it’s <em> tickled, </em>and there’s a dawning realisation in his expression, about as sly as Stitch has ever seen Pete look.</p><p>‘Stitch! You sneaky fuck, you been thinking about this? ...You have, ain’t you?’</p><p>Stitch is frozen in place, but his cock throbs its approval and his heart is hammering a pathetically hopeful tattoo against the inside of his rib cage. All he can manage is a breathless ‘Fuck you.’</p><p>It’s stupid, because even though Stitch literally engineered this entire situation, he can’t quite help being prickly and contrary. It’s just how he is with Pete! It feels like an extension of their ‘don’t touch me’ bit, which really always meant ‘I want you to touch me so badly I can’t stand it’, and it seems like Pete is maybe finally cottoning on to that, because he throws back his head and cackles again.</p><p>‘Awww, I see how it is; that is <em> well </em>filthy.’ He’s gone all pink in the cheeks, delighted and scandalised both at that same time, like he’s delighted by being scandalised. ‘You dirty bugger, this is about that time I walked in on you, innit? You been thinking about it all that time? You been thinking about me while you’re tugging one out?’</p><p>Stitch still doesn’t entirely know what’s going on here, but a strangled little whine grits out between his teeth at that, his hand on his dick spasming helplessly. Pete laughs breathlessly but his eyes have gone all narrow, like he’s trying his hardest to figure out what Stitch’s angle is here, what’s going on. Stitch reflects vaguely that if he could think a little more clearly right now, he might even feel bad for Pete, having to try and figure out what he’s after. As it is, he feels <em> dizzy </em> with desperation, flushed hot and clammy and breathing hard.</p><p>Pete’s eyes are still narrowed, but he’s smiling now like he’s figured it out, and oh <em> please </em>-- Stitch doesn’t realise he’s said that out loud until Pete laughs and his face clears, all the narrow shrewdness cast aside. Stitch’s breath catches.</p><p>‘Please?’ He says it intentionally this time, squirming on the spot, and Pete grins and settles in to lean against the doorjamb.</p><p>‘Yeah, go on, I ain’t gonna stop you.’</p><p>And Stitch <em> groans </em> as he picks the motion of his hand back up, sliding down the shaft to toy with his foreskin, twisting and jerking. Pete goes all vacant for a moment, his lower lip all plump and slack as he watches Stitch touch himself, and Stitch’s hips jerk helplessly into his hand because oh god, even in his fantasies he never actually imagined Pete looking at him like that. A moment later he shakes his head, snapping himself back into focus.</p><p>‘You <em> are</em>’, he beams. ‘You’re a right filthy bastard, scheming all this time? An’ here I was inviting you over to help look after me puppies all innocent-like an’ you couldn’t even control yourself for that.’ He licks his lips and pivots off the doorjamb so he’s leaning against the wall next to Stitch. ‘I turn you on that much?’ He laughs as a thought occurs to him. ‘You been doing this at work too? Having to secret yourself away in the back to bang one out all quiet-like cos you just got the horn for me that bad?’</p><p>Stitch groans and throws his head back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s too much stimulation all at once and the darkness helps narrow everything in-- his own hand, big and warm and slippery, the heat of helpless spiralling arousal in his gut and his bollocks, the tingling awareness of Pete’s body next to his. ‘No’, he pants, and he just feels the puff of Pete’s softly exhaled laugh against his throat. </p><p>‘Nah, you wanted to get caught, huh? Not as much fun if I ain’t there to barge in on you?’ There’s another soft breath, a long exhalation of realisation, and Stitch can <em> hear </em>Pete smiling. ‘You act like you’re all private, but you like being watched, don’t you? You like me watching you.’ Pete laughs again and then his voice comes closer, nearer to Stitch’s ear, soft like he’s got a dirty secret to tell. ‘That is well sexy, Stitch.’</p><p>‘Hhnneh?’ Stitch manages.</p><p>Pete laughs again and shoulders closer. ‘It is! C’mere, lemme get involved a bit, yeah?’</p><p>And before he can even begin to parse what Pete means by that, he’s got his hand on Stitch’s cock, and Stitch’s eyes snap open. Somehow-- like an idiot-- he hadn’t been expecting it, because ohgod, what, Pete is actually <em> touching his cock</em>. His hand’s smaller than Stitch’s, and he’s urging Stitch’s hand to move faster because of course he’d be impatient like that, of course he would be, of course he’d be all damn the torpedoes about even this, and god, Stitch’s poor dumb heart can’t take it. </p><p>He shies back, batting Pete’s hand away and blinking cow-stupid and slow, trying to muster words to explain-- that it isn’t that he doesn’t want it, it’s just a lot, that the fantasy never involved affection or Pete wanting to lend a hand and Stitch doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he apparently does, and all his brain’s in his bollocks right now and he can’t <em> think</em>. All he actually manages is a series of inarticulate pleading noises, but god bless Pete, apparently that’s enough. He laughs a little, gently, and actually pats Stitch on the cheek, eyes soft and expression all dopey and earnest.</p><p>‘Heyyy, ‘sawright, Stitch. Howbout you just give us a little kiss then, eh? Nice little blowie between mates, bet you’d like that.’</p><p>He rubs himself up against Stitch’s hip and Stitch is suddenly, dizzyingly aware of the feeling of Pete’s hard cock enthusiastically making itself known through the fabric of his chinos. His arsehole clenches. He can’t even spare a thought to dissecting what Pete means by <em> between mates</em>, not now. He’ll deal with that later.</p><p>‘Yeah, alright’, he breathes, and ungracefully clambers down to his knees.</p><p>He can hear Pete suck in a breath above him, but he doesn’t think about that either, just sets to unbuttoning Pete’s trousers and shoving them out of the way, pulling down his ridiculous smiley-face pants to get to his cock. And he’s seen Pete’s dick before, because Pete’s got no shame, but never like <em> this</em>, so fucking pretty and flushed dark and for <em> him </em>. There’s a possessive curl of pleasure in his gut; for now, at least, this is for him.</p><p>Pete exhales shakily above him, and Stitch glances up to see him gone all wide-eyed and hectically pink, the angle making the heaving of his skinny chest strange. He looks almost amazed. Stitch wonders briefly if Pete can see himself in the mirror, if he’s into that. He’d avoided it, because no-one needs to add the sight of their own embarrassing face to a wank, but if anyone would be into it, it would be Pete, watching himself in the mirror being sucked off. As close as you can get to an audience on your own.</p><p>But for now, Pete’s just staring down at Stitch. He grins when he realises he’s being watched, expression sliding easily into cheery cheek, and he winks and wiggles his hips. ‘G’on then. You been thinking about this, I wanna see where you’re at.’</p><p>And Stitch closes his eyes and does.</p><p>Pete starts moaning and panting immediately, before Stitch has done much more than get his cock in his mouth, and that is… maybe the hottest thing he’s ever experienced? He groans around Pete’s dick, reaching up to curl around the base because Pete’s dick is fucking huge. Stitch isn’t a size queen by any measure-- sex is rare enough in his book that any dick is a good dick-- but there’s still something thrilling about the knowledge that he’d have to <em> work </em> to get all of Pete in his mouth. Pete’s hips are twitching like he wants to really fuck Stitch’s mouth-- or more likely like he’s too eager and impatient to keep still, and Stitch makes a vaguely quelling noise around his cock, pushing him back against the wall with his other hand so he can really get stuck in, bobbing his head with wet, sloppy enthusiasm.</p><p><em> Fuck</em>, he’s actually sucking off Pete Sweet. All his extremities are tingling, his nose is full of the smell of Pete, his knees are aching against the tiles, and he’s trying his best to mentally record every single detail of this.</p><p>And then it’s just… god, it’s good, it’s fucking good. Pete’s cock is a hot, heavy weight pressing against his tongue, taut against his cheeks as Stitch dives in, and in, and in. Pete doesn’t shut up for a moment, his internal monologue apparently gone entirely external as he moans and pants and whimpers. It’s not too long before Pete gets his hands in Stitch’s hair, petting and stroking and tugging just a <em> little</em>, just enough to send helpless tingles of heat dripping down Stitch’s spine. He’s jerking himself off while he blows Pete, abject and desperate and dirty, and Pete laughs when he notices, breathless and giddy.</p><p>‘Aw, fuck yeah, Stitch, fuck, c’you come while you’re blowing me, that’d be so fucking hot, you dirty bastard, god, how’d I miss all that filth hiding under there, eh? Gonna hafta make up for it, fuck, so good, <em> Stitch</em>, hnngh--!’</p><p>Stitch wants to encourage him, wants dizzily to agree with all of that, to ask what ‘making up for it’ means, to confess everything, but all he can do is suck harder. He twists with his hand, twirling his tongue around under Pete’s foreskin as he strokes himself faster and faster, thighs clenched hard as the heat and pleasure in his gut and balls twists tighter and tighter.</p><p>His orgasm comes on him so fast after so much buildup that it’s somehow still a surprise. One moment it’s almost there and the next it’s <em> there</em>, everything <em> clenching </em> bright hot, an orgasm that feels like <em> finally</em>, and Stitch cries out with Pete’s cock still in his mouth, jerking and coming all over his hand and probably the floor and Pete’s feet too. </p><p>‘Bloody hell’, Pete breathes shakily above him, and his dick twitches against Stitch’s tongue.</p><p>Stitch is breathing so hard he has to pull back so he doesn’t choke on Pete’s cock, and for a moment he rests his forehead against Pete’s sweaty, bony hipbone, trying to ride out the tingling aftershocks of pleasure. Part of him’s embarrassed; he hadn’t expected to come first in a situation like this, but Pete’s giggling a little hysterically above him, murmuring about how hot that was, <em> holy shit, Stitch</em>, so he doesn’t seem to care.</p><p>He swallows Pete’s dick back down as soon as he has his breath back, groping blindly for Pete’s hands to put them back on his head. He’s feeling warm and floppy all over, too flooded with endorphins to have much fine motor control, and Pete groans vehemently when he gets what Stitch is trying to communicate. He’s not rough, but still, he fucks Stitch’s mouth with enthusiasm until he comes with a shameless shout, hot down his throat.</p><p>‘Fuck <em> me',</em>, he groans as he slumps back against the wall, looking down at Stitch and smiling dazedly.</p><p>Pete’s always beautiful, but it’s just stupid now-- he’s all dreamy-eyed and vague, the flush high in his cheeks and his lips bitten and wet, just a little bit sweaty. He looks like he’s in love. All Stitch can do is giggle like an idiot and slump back against the bathtub. </p><p>He loses track of the time after he’s slumped down onto the bathroom floor, his ears a racket of his lungs and heart, stuck in some strange liminal space between bliss and terror. It’s like his brain wants to leap into anxious overthinking, but he’s too overwhelmed and sex-stupid to actually manage it, so he just slumps there with his legs stretched out under the sink and vaguely watches Pete, who’s sitting on the toilet and looking unusually thoughtful. Eventually, after enough time has passed that Stitch is starting to feel less like a puddle, Pete suddenly bursts out laughing and Stitch startles so hard he whacks his elbow on the bath.</p><p>‘You <em> were </em> jealous!’ He’s grinning, open-mouthed and delighted at his apparent epiphany. ‘You were! Only you weren’t jealous of <em> me</em>.’</p><p>Well, shit. Stitch absolutely doesn’t have enough brain power to deal with this conversation now and his elbow is still tingling fuzzily with nerve pain. ‘I-- no I wasn’t, I just-- I didn’t--’</p><p>‘Piss off, you can’t lie to me!’ Pete crows. ‘You were! <em> You </em>were tryin’ to break up me an’ Poppy an’ Daisy ‘cos you wanted me yourself! No-wonder you were always so weird about them.’ You’d have thought he’d solved world hunger, for how pleased Pete looks with himself for finally putting all the pieces together. Stitch squirms.</p><p>‘Look, just ‘cos I’m gay doesn’t mean--’</p><p>‘Aw, g’on, Stitch, d’you really fancy me? Like proper?’ </p><p>Pete’s giving him that look he gives all the girls he asks out, all big-eyed vacant charm, and Stitch flushes to have it directed at him. Pete’s so <em> earnest</em>, asking that after they’ve just had impromptu kinky bathroom sex that Stitch had pervily schemed to make happen, and it’s just-- it’s so Pete Sweet that Stitch can hardly bear it. His stupid hopeful heart aches, but he still can’t bring himself to be straightforward about it.</p><p>‘<em>Fancy </em>you? What, are we ten years old?’</p><p>Pete, bless him, seems to know exactly what Stitch isn’t saying, because he just laughs again, grinning and fussing with his hair. ‘You <em> do.</em>’</p><p>Everything is wonderful to Pete, every day a new cornucopia of delights to inspire incandescent rapture, but this particular revelation seems to have him fit to burst with glee. He’s all pink-cheeked and starry-eyed, with just enough of that unexpected shrewdness in his expression that it makes Stitch flush again.</p><p>‘I--’ he exhales a great gust of breath, eyes twitching from the old red and blue floor tiles up to Pete, unable to keep eye contact, ‘-- yes, alright, yes I do. I fancy you bloody rotten, you little tit. I have done for ages.’</p><p>‘Fancy’ isn’t the word Stitch would use, really, but words aren’t exactly his thing, and he’s certainly not about to tell Pete he <em> loves </em> him. Sex is one thing, and feelings are one thing, but if he freaks Pete out talking about <em> love </em>and ruins all of this, he’ll have no choice but to go and throw himself in the canal.</p><p>Pete keeps grinning at him-- soft around the edges, dopey in that stupidly charming Pete Sweet way, but still oddly thoughtful. Stitch can almost hear the internal monologue running behind his eyes, although he’s got no fucking idea what it might sound like. What does Pete even think about all this? Had he guessed? Had he secretly fancied Stitch too? He’s got no idea. After a moment he huffs a little laugh and reaches out to poke Stitch in the thigh with one foot. He's wearing a pink and green striped sock.</p><p>‘Hey Stitch-- now we’re lovers!’</p><p>He says it like it’s a fantastic inside joke, the punchline to a setup Stitch missed, and Stitch chokes on his own spit and then descends into a coughing jag. As soon as he’s recovered enough to catch his breath, he cocks a dry eyebrow up at Pete.</p><p>‘I don’t think you can say that when we’ve not actually made love yet.’</p><p>Pete looks <em> delighted</em>. ‘Made loooooove? Aww, are you a secret romantic, Stitch? D’you want me to woo you? Mind, I wouldn’t’a thought it after all that, but--’</p><p>‘Fuck off’, says Stitch, but he’s flushing even harder than earlier, ears hot and hairline gone all tight, because maybe? He’s never thought of himself as a romantic-- he’s an emotionally constipated arsehole, he knows himself-- but the idea of Pete’s devoted romantic attention like that is <em> powerful </em>. It also kind of makes Stitch want to squirm out of his skin and potentially go have a panic attack in a dark room, but still.</p><p>Pete’s laughing and shaking his head, beaming fondly down at Stitch. ‘Genius. You’re a well dark horse; I’m gonna hafta work to keep up with you.’</p><p>He’s acting like they’ve already had a conversation that they definitely haven’t had, like they’ve come to a mutual decision about what all this means. They’re lovers? That could mean anything. They're probably going to need to have that conversation eventually, ask questions that will need to have answers before Stitch can feel comfortable or settled-- does Pete want to be his boyfriend? can they be monogamous?-- but god, he is not up to having it now. The emotional exhaustion is setting in with a vengeance. Pete can probably tell, because he ends up manhandling Stitch into the shower, laughing and tutting at him all the while about how he needs to take care of himself, can’t just be sitting around in his own jizz forever, what’d he ever do before Pete Sweet, eh? </p><p>‘Lucky I’m just as big a perv as you, you dirty bird’, he chuckles, and ‘C’mere, lemme scrub you off’, and ‘Aww, check out that tummy!’ Stitch slaps his hands away half-heartedly when Pete goes in for an enthusiastic grope of his embarrassing stomach pudge, but he’s mostly too busy feeling all warm and overwhelmed and helplessly smitten. Pete takes his hands back and rubs his dick up on Stitch’s belly instead, grinning a <em> yeah, what now? </em>grin. Stitch nearly faints from how hot it is.</p><p>They’ll talk about it later, he decides muzzily. He’ll let Pete soap him off and then they’ll order kebabs and maybe then, after a cider or two, Stitch will get up the gumption to ask how Pete feels and what Pete wants. For now, he’s more or less content; he’ll allow it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>THE FIFTH TIME</b>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s one thing, Stitch has discovered, to know as a third party that Pete Sweet is sexually adventurous, and quite another to know it as his boyfriend. Partner. Lover. Whatever. All the words kind of make Stitch squirm, but they all mean more or less the same thing, which is that he’s the one having sex with Pete now, no-one else, and that Pete is up for almost literally anything. In fact, Pete seems to find all of Stitch’s shameful little kinks nothing short of <em> charming</em>, which is-- something. Strange, certainly. Embarrassing, absolutely. But it also makes Stitch’s insides do helpless clenchy things when Pete laughs his stupid delighted laugh and demands, like a child, to know more.</p><p>Stitch has never known anyone who treats sex as much like a game as Pete does. Sometimes that makes him insecure, paranoid that it must mean Pete’s not serious about him, or that he’s secretly laughing at him. But most of the time it’s just… kind of amazing. Stitch hadn’t really realised that sex could be as <em> fun </em>as it is with Pete, and Pete’s endless enthusiasm for even the messiest, most embarrassing and fleshly parts of sex has proved something of an education. Fucking ironic, coming from borderline-moronic Pete Sweet, but there it is. </p><p>And Pete’s got his own kinks, of course, but more than anything else he seems to like figuring out what Stitch is into-- and then that turns into Pete’s kink too. As far as Stitch can tell, he’s too happily undiscerning to actually have much in the way of his own preferences, so a lover (boyfriend? partner?) with his own very particular tastes is like an exciting gift every time. </p><p>He’s taken to ambushing Stitch with ideas for new ways for them to have sex, which is a lot, but also no-one has spent this much time thinking about what Stitch wants since… ever, and all that care and attention is enough to make Stitch fall in love all over again.</p><p>‘Nah, nah, Stitch, it’ll be genius!’ Pete had assured him a few days previous. ‘Just ‘cos we’re together now don’t mean you can’t get your dirty little engine revved, yeah?’ At which point he had actually winked, which embarrassingly made Stitch’s stomach flip. ‘Maybe, oooh, maybe you been dog-sitting for me, yeah? ‘Cos I was outta town visiting me auntie or something.’</p><p>‘D’you have to bring your auntie into it?’</p><p>Pete had brushed him off carelessly. ‘Or I was doing a football weekend with some of the lads, I dunno. Anyway, you was dog-sitting for me and had a sneaky little shufti all in the drawers and that and found all me sex toys, yeah? Probably got you all worked up just thinking about me usin’ ‘em and you couldn’t resist-- figured I weren’t supposed to be home for like a day at least, so what could it hurt? You’d clean ‘em off afterwards and I’d never know, would I? ‘Scept then I come home early, right, right while you’re in the middle of things, got one’a me dildos up your arse and all, and then-- well, you know.’ </p><p>He’d smiled a dippily enthusiastic smile, somehow managing to look innocent and diabolical at the same time, and Stitch would have had a hard time refusing even if the scenario hadn’t been ridiculously hot.</p><p>Now, Pete’s due back in an hour to ‘find’ Stitch at it, and Stitch is sprawled out on the settee idly watching Time Team and occasionally eyeing up the clock to make sure he’s on time. He’d thought about getting things started, but he knows himself and he’s not about to ruin this by getting himself all excited too early and getting off before Pete’s even got involved. So instead he’s just cooling his heels, occasionally giving Bubble or Squeak ear scritches when they wander past to curl up and nap on the rug. And yes, alright, he can’t quite stop his leg doing a little jiggle of nervous kinetic energy, and yes, alright, he’s already got a half mongrel just knowing what’s coming, but some things are worth waiting for. </p><p>It’s a novel experience, waiting for something he actually knows is coming, but Stitch is finding that he quite likes it.</p>
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